Today is a day to celebrate the youth and elders, the students and scholars, the veterans and laborers, the freedom fighters risking pepper spray, batons, arrests, flash-bang grenades.

Today is a day to say “Thank You” to the women and men marching in streets fighting for equality, shouting “Sí, se puede!”, linking arms in solidarity.

Today is a day of gratitude for those reclaiming the squares and parks and plazas and malls from the force of oligarchy masquerading as democracy.

Today is a day to honor the legacy of generations resisting colonization, occupation, decimation, and genocide.

Today is a day to believe “there ain’t no power like the power of the people!”, that “The people united will never be defeated.”

So take a moment TODAY and thank a protester. Thank them in person, on twitter, on Facebook, via email. Shout it in the streets. Wave your sign. Let’s take back this (Black) Friday. Let’s make it “Thank-A-Protester” Day Internationally.

On a bright Saturday in November, four individuals gathered at The Happiness Institute. Each came bringing different stories, lives, and talents. Two were there to facilitate wellness and arts practices. One came on a whim looking for ...? And one was there for some respite.

Over a couple hours the four people delved into the depths of self and community. A time was set and the four picked up pens in non-dominant hands. They drew imagined self portraits without aid of glass mirrors. Then, writing and viewing and writing some more. As each moment passed more insights occurred.All of the reflection made bodies demand connection. The four shuffled chairs and formed a circle. One shared the wisdom of tapping touch, and all tapped selves. After minutes of tapping, one became two. One fellow tapped another starting with her/his shoulders. Then, the neck, the spine, and down the sides of arms. It ended with hands gently laying on lower backs. More tapping, more connecting, more intimacy.

Finally, silence.

A round of stories shared broke that silence, which spurred five minutes more of quick scribing sharpies. Buzz. Three paragraphs of free writes stared reflectively at each person. "Pick one line that summarizes the essence of each paragraph." And everyone probed each paragraph until three lines were picked. "Write each sentence down on a single notecard." And everyone transcribed each line until twelve lines of poetry filled the room.

This is the collective poem of those four individuals and above are their self portraits:

break free from shelf-containmentmy drawing tells me that i feel trapped in my present environmentthe right side of my brain is misfiringi am amazed at how i don't always know my body even though it is the only one i havethere is only meother portraits tell me i'm not comfortable in my own skini am experiencing the feeling of anger towards my father right nowi want the release of a good cry, the kind where minerals are expelled through eyesthe stark black ink against bright white paper is a visual contrast to the serenity i feeldo not merely read, live out the wordthere is proportion, depth, movement, emotion, and even some dissonancegreat to be a part of this street-level, sunshine-powered workshop

by Jason WymanGodzilla attacked, and I was the only one who could stop her. She was terrorizing San Francisco because some Berkeley scientist found and stole a Godzilla egg while studying the mating habits of whales. The egg was found on a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific somewhere between Hawaii and Japan. The scientist believed he could raise the baby Godzilla and turn it into a weapon for a private security firm that provided handsome grants to his research. It was all very 1950s classic science fiction complete with ominous music played by a string section and a theramin.

I had stealthily snuck into the scientist's lab and confiscated the egg from under a heat lamp that looked more like a prop than an actual heat lamp. The egg was rubbery and moved when touched. It was almost like the skin of an earth worm. I tucked it in my backpack, fled UC Berkeley, and rode BART back to San Francisco.

As we sped across the bottom of the Bay, the train swayed with each step Godzilla took. Unnerved, I held the backpack close to my chest and counted. I count every time I am nervous or scared; it helps drown out the voices of doubt and fear.

When I reached fifty-six for the third time, I woke. The covers were thrown to the middle of the bed and John, my husband, was snoring softly to my right. Godzilla faded and with it so too faded the hope I would save San Francisco. All I was left with was a feeling of terror and failure. Even in my dreams I couldn't achieve the impossible. It left me in a bitter mood.

The day was Tuesday, and I could tell it was going to be a gloriously depressing day filled with lots of wallowing and moping. The dream, while fantastical, echoed feelings of sadness, anxiety, and despair from the day before. I just needed to get through Tuesday. Hopefully, in my next dream, I would save San Francisco, and Godzilla and I would become pals.

I jumped out of bed, rushed to the bathroom, and brushed my teeth. I needed to get out of the apartment quickly. I knew staying would only compound the wallowing. Maybe writing and a strong cup of coffee would jolt me into a better mood. (Spoiler: it didn't.) I just needed movement.

My funk followed me into the afternoon. I couldn't escape it, and I tried to lose it by shuffling my feet, slamming doors, and angrily washing dishes. Nothing was working. It was as if I was trapped in the Transbay Tunnel ready to save San Francisco from Godzilla, but I was unable to actually do anything about it. I was under water.

Then, through the act of scheduling meetings too far in advance, I had a coffee date with Evan Johnson at Borderlands at 6pm. I knew it was coming all day, and it was partly why I wanted so desperately to get out of my funk: I didn't want it bleeding into my meeting/coffee date. Nothing says bitter queen quite like a pouty face and terse words. At 35, I am too young to be a bitter queen. And bitterness always breeds bitterness. What I really needed was hope. Hope that the impossible was possible.

At about 5:00pm, I was loudly pacing through my apartment. My cell in hand I composed a "let's postpone" text to Evan. Something stayed my thumb from hitting send, and instead I packed my bag. By 5:15pm, I left my home and walked the ten blocks (or so) to Borderlands.

I arrived early. I needed that time to refocus, to ground myself, to somehow shake all of the anger, frustration, anxiety, and despair from my body. I purchased a tea and took a seat. Alone in Borderlands, which doesn't play any music, has no wireless, and is library quiet, I meditated. Or more accurately, I sat in silence.

After all of my huffing and moping and general malaise, I paused. In that moment, I felt my shoulders loosen, my breath deepen, and calmness take root. My entire being changed as the result of stillness and anticipation of meeting a friend. Obligation made room for transformation.

Evan arrived moments later, and I greeted him with a warm smile and a hug. He grabbed a pot of tea and we sat together for about two hours talking San Francisco club history, intergenerational dialogue, theater and ensembles, and general artistic visions. Throughout our conversation, I felt my shoulders loosen even more, my breath slowed, and that calmness grow. Sure, I still ceaselessly twirled my pen, but that is just fidgety habit.

There was a moment in our conversation that Evan's eyes widened with excitement. He told the story of Diet Klubstitute, an infamous club promoter in the late 1980s and 1990s, living with HIV/AIDS who confronted his own mortality through humorous and often outrageous drag performances. Evan also spoke of nostalgia and Peter Pan. (He is working on an amazing one-person show that hits stages in 2012!) He shared a story about coming to San Francisco for the first time as a child and seeing Cathy Rigby play Peter Pan at the Orpheum Theater. It was the early 1990s; and as he sat in the theater, the queer community was dealing with the aftermath of HIV/AIDS. There he was in a theater as a young child confronted with the improbability of aging, and San Francisco was morning the decimation of a generation.

Hope was also there. For Evan, there was the hope of imagination capture by a live performance. For San Francisco, hope was spreading through the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt and clubs like Klubstitute, which Diet promoted and hosted. It was a hope born of grief, loss, and anger. It was the hope of living even in moments of utter darkness.

As I listened to Evan, I, too, found hope, and I realized that hope does not exist in relation to sadness. Rather hope is always around me. I just need to stop chasing it. Then, hope will be found in the silence, in the despair, in a good old fashioned conversation with a friend.

That night, I didn't dream of Godzilla. In fact, I don't remember dreaming at all. And when I woke on Wednesday morning, I laid in bed a little longer relishing the silence.

***This is Part Two of a two-part blog post on interdependence.

Interdependence is the theme of our next 14 Black Poppies Workshop, Finding Community; Finding I, which is on Saturday, November 12 from 10am to 12:30pm at the Happiness Institute in San Francisco. For more information, please click here.

by Margaret Bacon After the destruction, those who had survived came together. For some, the pain of such a great loss made them sick with sorrow. They sat and wept with so much sadness that even the surviving flies would not touch their tears. With grief so great, they had nothing to give to the rebirth of their world. They simply laid down and let their sorrow consume them. Others worked tirelessly, day and night, to clean up the waste and find resources to rebuild. Some were fueled by anger, some by hope, and some even felt a sense of adventure at the thought of creating a new world. After a time, life became a little easier. The people still worked hard, but now the urgency of survival was gone. Groups began to gather and share their hopes and dreams for a future. One very smart, old man called together those blessed with great minds and they talked and talked. “How could such a terrible thing have happened?” they asked. And then they argued for days over the answer. They discussed how to prevent such a catastrophe from happening again and what the best plan was for the new world. The great minds did little to help with the rebuilding, but that was because they were very busy sharing great ideas. They rarely agreed on any answers, but they seemed to find fulfillment in discussions and even arguments. An old woman, who did not have such a great mind, sat on the edge of some of such talks. She was amazed at the abundance of thoughts, but the long discussions and disagreements soon gave her a headache and she had to walk away. Another woman, with a kind heart, put her energy into helping others. She worked day and night taking care of the sick, feeding the hungry and building shelter for those that had none. She was often tired, but she never stopped working. The old woman worked with the kind-hearted woman to help others. One day the old woman tried to give the kind-hearted woman a bowl of soup, for she had not eaten all day, but the kind-hearted woman refused to eat and gave the soup to another. This made the kind-hearted woman’s daughter angry. The daughter worried for her mother’s health. The daughter was also afraid of growing weak like her mother so she worked hard to take care of her body. The daughter drank only drank pure water and ate only the freshest foods, sometimes traveling far into nature to find them. She ran great distances to strengthen her legs and heart and lifted heavy objects to make herself strong. She worked many hours a day to keep herself fit. Others, admiring the daughter’s strong body, sought her advice and she, also being kind like her mother, gladly instructed them in their quest for health and strength. The daughter boasted that she would be ready for the next disaster. If it should occur, she would be able to run fast or shield herself from falling objects. If there were a lack of food, her body would be strong enough to survive for many days without eating. The old woman listened and tried to eat well and to push her body like the others, but she could not keep up with tiring exercises of the strong daughter and her followers. When the group went running, the woman tried to walk fast with them, but soon she fell far behind. She found that while she couldn’t walk very fast, she could walk quite far and she soon found herself at the edge of the hills. The air was cool and clean and the woman began to feel a sense of peace that she had not felt since the destruction. She stopped thinking about why such a bad thing had happened and worrying if it would happen again. The old woman simply enjoyed the walk and appreciated her body for how far it had carried her into nature. When she was tired, she sat and rested. She found a soft, grassy spot and sat to enjoy the sun’s warmth on her back. She closed her eyes and opened her hands to the sky. She began to hum, not really a tune, just a pleasant sound that filled her body and emptied her mind. Soon, her thoughts faded away and she stopped humming and simply listened to the silence. She didn’t know when it happened, it might have been a short time or it might have been a very long time, but at some point the silence spoke to her and they talked without speaking for a long while. When the old woman returned to herself, it was almost dark, but she was at peace and wasn’t worried or afraid to be alone. She didn’t want to leave the place, but she knew she had to tell the others of the peace she’d found. She was so excited that she almost ran down the hill. As soon as she reached the others, she tried to tell them of experience, but they looked at her oddly. She was disappointed that no one seemed to understand her. The next day, the old woman went back to the hills. Again she found peace in silence. Day after day, she always found time to go off by herself. Some days she went to the hills, other days she walked to the water and sometimes she simply sat in her hut, but always the silence came to her and gave her peace. Most of the people thought the old woman had become odd and some avoided her. The kind-hearted woman still brought her food, but she looked at her sadly. One day though, a young woman of great mind, a man of kind heart and another woman of great strength saw the peace that the old woman had found. They sought her out and she led them to sit with her in nature. They too listened to silence and found peace. Their group was a small one compared to the others that formed. Yet, they lived and worked alongside their fellow people always finding time for silence. And, with the others, they built a new world.

I'm sad. There. I wrote it. Now, maybe I can get past it, but I'm not too hopeful. This sadness has stuck around for quite a while, and sometimes it is so pervasive I take a nap. While dreaming, I imagine a bright neon world complete with flashing billboards, sparklingly clean sidewalks, and everyone wearing the same black high collared uniform. When I wake, I'm even more depressed. I hate neon.

There is also hope in there somewhere. It is hard to find at times, and usually is found while trekking through redwoods or washing rice or sitting quietly at Progressive Grounds with my magenta pen scribbling across a page. Occasionally, hope visits when I'm lost in Facebook in the form of an article by Rebecca Solnit about the hope of the Occupy movement or a cheeky music video like George Michael's "Outside" or a simple status update about birthday thanks. I try holding on to those moments as much as possible. Mostly, though, they slip through my fingers and run as tears down my cheeks.

It is easy to stay sad and give up on hope, especially when it seems so fleeting and intangible. Hope is not visiting me as a steady income or as economic security. I cannot touch hope, and yet its presence, when there, is physiological. I feel my feet lighten and my heart slow when it is near. In fact, my physiological reaction is better than any drug, and certainly more addictive. The crashes, too, are there.

Nowadays, the crashes are bigger, longer, more depressing, so I go chasing hope. I run to the beach, a protest, an experimental performance, a cafe. I'm constantly on the go hoping that hope will find me and stick around for a little longer. Sometimes, like my meeting with Roland and Dawn at the Pacific School of Religion, I find it the quiet moments of possibility where we discuss using theater to open dialogue among LGBTQQIA youth about their personal spiritual beliefs. (I can't imagine what it would have been like to have an opportunity when I was 16 to talk about being out and spiritual.) Those kinds of moments can sustain me for a day or two. Then, like all drugs, hope is gone, and I am back chasing some other hope. It gets tiring.

There is nothing wrong with chasing hope. I have noticed how sad so many other people are. It pops up in blog comments, status updates, turned down eyes, fidgety fingers. I see it as my neighbor walks down the street with his hunched shoulders and shuffling feet. I find it in the 80-year-old Hawaiian woman at McDonald's as she stares out the window every day. It is right below the surface for most these days. It seems a major depression haunts our collective psyche. At least by chasing hope, I have found a way to cope.

I have also seen my temporary hope expressed through shared smiles ripple. I have sat with people in a cafe, listened to their stories, and shared mine. In this exchange, I tend to stay positive, which results in smiles and hugs and more positive outlooks. The exchange even gives me a momentary lightness. Yet always, always, it fades the further I get from that moment. And we live in a linear world, so I am always getting further away.

Lately, though, I have wondered about hiding my sadness. I wonder if hiding it makes it seem that I am fine and don't need help. I wonder if hiding it delays its eventual departure. I wonder if hiding it is hiding truth. I also wonder if in hiding my sadness I am projecting a reality that can never be.

I have told myself that I want to be a point of inspiration for others, that I want to be beacon in these tumultuous times, that I want to provide renewal especially to those on the frontlines of the struggle for social justice. In that narrative, I have chosen to highlight hope because I have believed that there isn't enough hope. If I want to see more hope in the world, I must model it even when I don't feel it.

I am now beginning to realize that hope only exists in relation to sadness. I feel its physiological presence precisely because it ameliorates my sadness. And I wonder if in "faking it until I make it" I am postponing harmony and balance. Maybe if I truly acknowledge sadness, I can let it be and thus be at peace with it. Maybe I won't need to chase hope.

Instead, maybe hope will chase me.

***This is Part One of a two-part blog post on interdependence. The next post, titled "Hope Found" will be published on 11/8/2011.

The photos below were taken on the day of the above post as Jason chased hope through the Presidio.

About the Blog

The 14 Black Poppies Blog is the place to find creative works, personal reflections, articles and various arts and wellness sundries that either inspire or are created by co-founders Jason Wyman and Margaret Bacon Schulze.